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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23469787">'Sweet Music' Playing 'In The Dark'</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HobbitOfWessexShire/pseuds/HobbitOfWessexShire'>HobbitOfWessexShire</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - College/University, Cello, Classical Music, Drinking, English Uni, Eponine and Montparnasse have a punk band, F/F, Freshers Week, Gen, Inspired by Music, M/M, Musicology, Piano, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Build, Slow Burn, classical music talk, javert is based on my scary serious performance lecturer, jean valjean is based on my crazy music theory teacher, maybe too much swearing?, they all play instruments, too much slang im sorry, very slow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:00:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,706</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23469787</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HobbitOfWessexShire/pseuds/HobbitOfWessexShire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The only time Grantaire had played bar 30 of Grieg’s piano concerto correctly, even after years of practice, was when he was stoned out of his mind, at his university audition.</p><p>Grantaire heads to the best conservatoire in the country to play piano. There he meets Enjolras, the super serious cellist. </p><p>A Classical Music AU written by a musician who misses their university days. This whole fic is: based on a Spotify playlist, from inspiration found after following a cellist on Twitter, and a way to procrastinate from practising my cello.  Yes the title is Hozier.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Cosette Fauchelevent/Éponine Thénardier, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), i guess there is more, i'm too lazy to tag all now</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Some Opening Themes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a piece of fan fiction is mixed with personal experiences of university and the world of classical music, with my too-wild-for-me-own-good imagination. I started writing it as something for myself to get through my Masters, but then I thought why the hell not. I’m not a writer: I'm a musician, so I ask for your forgiveness with grammar and patience with my terrible descriptions. Spelling will be an issue I'm sorry.</p><p>The city in which this story takes place is a fictionalised sort-of-London. Grantaire and his buddies live in the East side of ‘London’ and the university is based on the Royal College of Music or Royal Academy of Music, y’know those types of places (of which I was not lucky enough to attend :( but oh well). </p><p>Grantaire is Italian. Eponine is French. Montparnasse is Norwegian. Please don’t question it. I’m sorry. First names are not my forte. Nor is writing.</p><p>#First Upload to a fanfic site, since i was 13. Enjoy.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong> <em>Grainger Arrangement: Piano Concerto in A Major, Op. 16: 1. Allegro molto moderato </em> </strong>
</p><p><strong> <em>Edvard </em> </strong> <b> <em>Grieg</em> </b></p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span class="u">Chapter One: Some Opening Themes</span>
</p><p> </p><p>There was this bar in the opening of the Grieg piano concerto that Giovanni Grantaire always struggled with. Bar 30. It wasn’t a particularly difficult bar, especially compared to the rest of the concerto, but to Grantaire it always felt incomplete and clumsy. It almost ended a phrase, before leading into another. And, he always messed it up. Like a curse, he could get through the hardest octave runs in the first movement or the jumpy melodies at the end of the third, but for some reason, he couldn’t play bar 30. The one (and only) time Grantaire had played that bar correctly, was in his university audition. He didn’t normally smoke before playing, but he was so stressed that day, he’d made an exception. Grantaire passed the audition, with ‘flying colours’, and got a scholarship to play piano for three years, (which would make the whole university experience less stressful in the long run). But something about that day, and the exception he had made to his, really, only self-disciplined rule, set a tone, made a mood. It carried over and followed him through his studies.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The only time Grantaire had played bar 30 of Grieg’s piano concerto correctly, even after years of practice, was when he was fucking stoned.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>There was something about the piano that clung to Grantaire. He first saw one in the corner of his father’s local drinking spot, <em>the Thenardier’s pub. </em>Neglected after years of use in the 80s and 90s, the upright piano now sat deserted in the back corner of the public house, forgotten. That’s what Grantaire had been too: forgotten. His father was having one of his ‘rough days’, and was practically falling off the bar stool, stumbling, probably ready to head home. The child had been left at a table in the piano’s corner, with a pencil and some old menus to draw on. The young Grantaire was known for ‘doodling’ on everything. It was then he made his first connection to a piano. He couldn’t help it. The dim light had bounced off the white keys, and the stool still had a smooth leather covering. No one had noticed the six-year-old move to sit on that stool. Nor did they notice him miming on the keys.</p><p> </p><p>The noise had shocked him. So focused on ‘playing’, Grantaire had gotten carried away, and had hit a few keys. The out-of-tune twang echoed throughout the pub, and a hush settle on the place for not even a second. His had had been up in that silence, stumbling across the room.</p><p>“What you doing son?” his father growled, whisky on his breath.</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>“Doesn’t look like nothing.”<br/>The elder Grantaire had that nasty smile, that always haunted his face when he was drink and in the mood for a fight.</p><p>“You don’t touch what isn’t yours.”<br/>A young bartender had stepped in then, “It’s okay, the kid can play with it. By God is it beyond actual use now.”</p><p>But his father was not listening. No. He’d already grabbed his son’s t-shirt and pulled the kid towards the door. Grantaire went without diner that evening, but his dreams filled the whole in his stomach. In his dreams, Grantaire was sat at that old upright piano, singing harmoniously as he danced off into a distant land.</p><p> </p><p>After the university audition, the summer moved fast, and move-in-weekend quickly approached. Grantaire had spent most of the summer getting high at the skatepark with Eponine Thenardier and Lucian Montparnasse, watching Eponine’s little brother skate around. It had been one of the hottest summers on record; the TV kept telling everyone each morning. Homes in their neighbourhood weren’t built for extreme weather, but for once in Grantaire’s life, he was glad they didn’t have double-glazed windows.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you get your own bathroom?”</p><p>R closed his eyes, and inhaled the smoke, “No. Couldn’t afford that option, even with a loan and the scholarship.”<br/>It was too hot for September and R was sweating his balls off. The teenagers were settled on the back-fire-escape of R’s flat, taking in the late setting sun.</p><p>“Bastards,” Montparnasse took the joint from him, “Should have demanded it with your scholarship. Pulled the disadvantages card.”</p><p>Eponine laughed, “Sure Monty, because that’s how it works.”</p><p>Smiling loosely Montparnasse added, “It is if you’re charismatic enough.”</p><p>“I’m not going to be the only ‘disadvantaged kid’ there. Definitely not the most talented ‘disadvantaged kid’.”</p><p>Eponine nudged him, “No self-deprecating.”</p><p>“You’re right,” R finally got the joint back, “I’m fucking great.”</p><p>She laughed, sweat falling off her forehead, brown hair pulled up into a tight bun.</p><p> </p><p>Eponine Thenardier had been Grantaire’s best-friend since they were the tiny kids at school with absent mothers and growing father issues. She always had his back, even as Grantaire’s doodling turned morbid, and his obsession for the piano became unhealthy. She’d watch him for hours, practising scales, as she wrote in her journal. <em>Weirdest two kids on the estate</em>, the other kids always joked.</p><p> </p><p>Montparnasse had come later, in a bundle of anger, angst and dark humour that was far too mature for a nine-year-old. He had always been tall for his age, with long black hair and a thick accent to add to Eponine’s and R’s mix. Since then the three of them had been together almost every day.</p><p> </p><p>Until now. Now, R was leaving them.</p><p> </p><p>“I just want you to know, I’m going to miss you guys.”</p><p>Montparnasse snorted, “Jesus, you’ve had too much for today.”</p><p>He shrugged it off, “I mean it.”</p><p>It felt wrong. Even when R had filled out the application forms, he hadn’t thought about what would happen if he got in. And then, when the letter came, everything moved so fast. There had been no time to think.</p><p>Coughing, trying to block out the thoughts, R straightened up, “I’m only going to be in city-centre. What’s that? Like ten tube spots? ‘suppose it’s not that far.”</p><p>Eponine kicked an empty beer can his way, “Stop being so melancholic.”</p><p>“There you boys are!”<br/>The teenagers turned to the window that led from R’s flat to the fire-escape.</p><p>“Oh and Eponine, sorry I didn’t see you there,” R’s mother leaned out the window, “How is your little brother?”</p><p>The teenage girl smiled, “He’s doing great. Thanks Ms R.”</p><p>Next his mother turned to Montparnasse who, despite his usual cocky presence, was trying to fade into the side of the building.</p><p>“And Lucian! How are you? Gio said you got a new job!”</p><p>Eponine coughed as Montparnasse frowned at R, “Yes. No. I do. I work at Thenardier’s pub.”<br/>“Ah, I miss that pub,” Grantaire’s mother sighed, “It was always your father’s favourite. Anyway, dinner is ready if you kids want it.”</p><p>As soon as she moved back inside Montparnasse punched him in the side.</p><p>“What the fuck was that for Lucian?!”<br/>The taller boy shook his head, “What did you tell your mother? I actually respect her opinion of me.”</p><p>“Calm down, I didn’t tell her you joined a gang.”<br/>Montparnasse punched him again.</p><p>“Maybe I should of! You’ve become awfully violent since you started working for Eponine’s Dad.”</p><p>“Now that I’d love to see,” Eponine laughed, flicking the teenage drug-dealer on the head, “She’d probably kill you.”</p><p>As the teenagers stood to climb back inside, R stopped suddenly, pulling the other two into a hug.</p><p>“I am really going to miss you guys. I need you.”</p><p>Montparnasse opened his mouth to say something but closed it again as Eponine glared at him, pulled her boys closer into the hug.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you. Tusen Takk.</p><p>This is going to be a slow one. </p><p>FYI - the spotify playlist will be made public after a few more chapters if anyone would be interested in that.</p><p>FYI2 - the cellist that inspired me a little is Max Barbash. He does cool cello videos, and check this one out: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1RQ82-Upj3k </p><p>(i think you'll gather why he inspired this tale)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Prelude</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Here, some backstory.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Cheers for clicking on chapter two.</p><p>Do let me know if at all any one becomes too out of character ooc. I may have channelled my friends voices to certain characters too much.</p><p>Obviously my writing style will hopefully hopefully develop with time.</p><p>If not i'll ask my english graduate ex-roommate to edit and proof read.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong> <em>Piano Man</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Billy Joel</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>  </strong>
</p><p>Chapter Two: Prelude</p><p> </p><p>Piano. Said to be the easiest instrument to pick up, but the hardest one to master. The first piece of music Grantaire ever learned was <em>Piano Man </em>by Billy Joel. It was his mother’s favourite song, and she played it on her old radio almost every day while cooking or cleaning. Sometimes she listened to it three or four times in a row. Every new year, there was a party at the skatepark, in the bowl. And every year, Grantaire would be made to play a shitty old busking piano (that had been stolen from the local train station and left at the skatepark years ago). Every year it was more out of tune, but that didn’t matter, because the drunk singing of “sing us a song you’re the piano man” drowned out his playing.</p><p>Home had always been the fifth floor of an apartment building that sat in the middle of the street. Walk ten minutes south, and you got to the train station, and to bars and shops. Walk ten minutes north, and you got to the skatepark, river, and schools. Out the front, other lower/lower-middle class families lived in two- or three-bedroom apartments. Out the back, in the alleyways between buildings, the kids played and the teenagers got stoned. Grantaire was lucky enough to live in a two-bed, which meant his Ma and him having their own bedrooms. In Grantaire’s, a sofa bed claimed one corner, always made with fresh sheets, just in case Montparnasse or Eponine needed it.</p><p>The night before he moved to university, Eponine took the couch in the living room, while Monty sprawled out over the sofa bed. Montparnasse was in a deep sleep, curled up without the covers, shirtless. There were bruises fading on his side, which could have been from a fight, his job, or from falling off his skateboard again. The causes were never found out. R couldn’t sleep, especially with all his stuff packed in boxes piled in the corner of his room, taunting him.</p><p>
  <em>Did I really need to leave? I could commute. I could wait a year, wait for Ep to re-do her A-Levels. Or for Monty to figure out what the fuck he’s doing with his life. I could wait. </em>
</p><p>He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. It was six-thirty in the morning when R finally gave up on sleeping and quietly headed for the fire-escape. There was one joint left from the previous night. Not the best way to start university move-in-day, but it calmed his nerves and made him forget about the whole ‘I’m growing-up’ crisis.</p><p>“Gio,” his mother rubbed his shoulder.</p><p>R opened his eyes, “What?”</p><p>“<em>How long have you been out here?</em>” she spoke her mother tongue.</p><p>The teenager wiped his eyes, and pulled out his phone to check the time, “Jesus.”</p><p>She ruffled his hair, “<em>I heard you get up earlier, did you manage to get some sleep?”</em></p><p>Stretching out his legs, R stood up, <em>“Must have.”</em></p><p>The sun was up, heating the city in an unnatural, ‘we should really discuss the climate’ way.</p><p><em>“Go shower,” </em>she played with his hair, trying to untangle the curls,<em>“Got to be nice and clear for your first day.”</em></p><p>She stayed on the fire-escape while R headed inside.</p><p>“Morning Mozart,” Montparnasse greeted, sat on the kitchen counter smoking, “Ready to play the moonlight thingy for those ‘sliver-spooned’ folk?”</p><p>R poured himself a coffee, and leaned against the table, “That doesn’t make sense. Mozart didn’t compose the moonlight sonata, Beethoven did.”</p><p>Montparnasse rolled his eyes, scoffing, “Whatever. Jesus you smell like pot.”</p><p>R shrugged, “Couldn’t sleep. Can you not smoke in my mother’s kitchen?”</p><p>Montparnasse kicked him in the side, almost a little too hard, “Your mother was the one who lit it for me. She’s making me cook breakfast now though.”</p><p>“Let’s pray we don’t die.”<br/><br/></p><p>There was no hot water again, which woke R the fuck up. He stood there, staring into space, the water falling off his shoulders. It was weird. R was nervous, obviously, but there was something more on his chest. An emotion that was proving hard to understand. Maybe it was the pressure. From himself. From his family. From his friends. From his community. First Grantaire to go to university. <em>Feels like it’s all up to me. </em>Montparnasse would say he was being a prick. Eponine would say he was being self-centred.</p><p>“Morning, you seen a hairbrush?”</p><p>R jumped, pulling the mouldy shower curtain around himself, “Jesus Christ ‘Ponine!”</p><p>Eponine chuckled, brushing her hair in the minor with her fingers, “God R, no need to be self-conscious. I’ve seen your dick, nothing to be proud of.”</p><p>“That’s a little nonce-y.”</p><p>She did turn however, as R got out of the shower and put a towel on.</p><p>“You ready for the big day? We’re all coming to see you off!”</p><p>“Why? I can go by myself?”</p><p>Eponine pulled at his cheeks like a mother, “We’ve gotta see the littlest of the gang off to university.”</p><p>“Montparnasse is younger than me!”</p><p>“Yeah, but he’s taller. And his street smarts give him at least two years on you.”</p><p>“Right. What about my academic intelligence? And you’re only a month older than me!”</p><p>She winked as she left the bathroom, “Yeah, and don’t you forget it.”</p><p> </p><p>Eponine Thenardier was an older sister. She had been the first born of the Thenardier clan, with a younger sister and brother (not counting those mystery pregnancies where Madame Thenardier went to the hospital pregnant and came back without a child, but few quid richer). This older-sister-trait (begrudgingly) became a part of her, and after meeting Grantaire and Montparnasse, she decided that she had four younger siblings to take care of, instead of just two.</p><p> </p><p>Out of the three friends, Eponine had been the one to pick up music first, playing with her Dad’s old drumsticks, and bashing around on anything in her parents pub; pots and pans always heard clanging to no end. Thenardier had hated it at first, a toddler making all that racket, it was driving him crazy, and driving customers away. Until one day, when Led Zep was playing on the old rock radio station that always provided a soundtrack to the pub. Six-year-old Eponine had started to play along, sat at the bar, with the drumsticks. <em>“Look at that,” one of the regulars had laughed, “Got us our own John Bonham.”</em></p><p> </p><p>A year later, Grantaire had played the piano for the first time, in that very same pub, and his own musical journey began. It took three more trips to the pub, and being dumped at the piano, before his Dad realised that Grantaire was different. On his fourth time at the piano, he managed to play the vocal melody from Billy Joel’s <em>Piano Man. </em>The week after his Ma took him to the local church, where the organist gave him his first music lesson. It was free, as a favour, and all he did was play <em>Piano Man</em> over and over. It became his Ma’s project, a way to keep the joy and balance in a declining household.</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes R wondered about Eponine’s drumming skills. What could have happened if she’d got lessons or support from her family, or from school? Maybe she would be the one going off to university to study music. Maybe she’d be the genius kid out of all their estate. They’d never know. Eponine had never had the supportive parents; she’d never had the opportunity.</p><p> </p><p>In s self-centred way, that fell on Grantaire’s conscience. <em>What would have happened if I had never played that piano? What would have happened if his mother hadn’t spent her all her (minimal) life savings on a piano and music lessons? Would his mother of had a better life? His father, happier? </em></p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>But who would he be without music? what would he be without the piano? Who would like him without the piano? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>In a selfish way, Grantaire was fucking glad that things worked out as they did.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you! Tusen Takk!</p><p>fun fact - i'm terrible at writing dialogue. what are verbs?</p><p>fun fact two - piano man has a cool descending bass that is fun to play.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. A Major Scale</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Grantaire moves to university.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading this far. I promise the interesting stuff will come. Just bare with me as I remember how to write again.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong> <em>Thank You For The Music </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>ABBA</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Chapter Three: A Major Scale</p><p> </p><p>At roughly 11am, on a Saturday in September, one adult and three teenagers got the train from the east of the city, half an hour to the centre. Despite the approaching afternoon, Eponine was practically asleep on R’s folder of sheet music that sat on her lap. R wasn’t taking much to university: he didn’t own much to take. A folder of music, a case of clothes, a box of kitchen utensils and a rucksack of school supplies. Montparnasse was trying to roll a cigarette on his leg, as Eponine rolled her eyes.<br/>
“God you’re such a hipster,” she whined, nudging his shoulder, “And you smell like fuckin whisky!”</p><p>Montparnasse shrugged and tucked the now rolled cigarette behind his ear, “Didn’t have time to fucking shower. You two took too long.”</p><p>“Language!” Ms Grantaire looked down on them both, “I don’t want to be hearing that type of language. I hope you don’t use it around Gavroche.”</p><p>The two mumbled an apology. <em>As if Gavroche doesn’t already swear like a sailor. </em></p><p>“Are we there yet?” Eponine asked.</p><p>“Two more stops.”</p><p>R’s mother sighed sadly, “I’m going to miss you, my little piano man.”</p><p>She kissed her son’s cheek as he turned red. Eponine mouthed ‘piano man’ at him as Montparnasse let out a loud snort, gaining attention from other train passengers.</p><p>“Who’s going to play piano for me when I’m sad?”</p><p>Montparnasse grinned, “I will.”</p><p>“You’d just make her more fucking sad,” Eponine laughed as he flipped her off.</p><p>The mother stood as they approached their destination, flicking the two teenagers on their heads, “For the last time: stop it.”</p><p> </p><p>R followed his mis-matched family out of the train station, and up towards the accommodation building. There were bold signs, pointing parents and their kids to the right buildings. Cars lined the streets, with fathers lifting heavy cases out of trunks, while the mothers fussed over their children.</p><p>“This is a lot,” Eponine voiced her thoughts as they walked up the steps to the building, “This is a fucking lot.”</p><p>R’s mother couldn’t even tell the teenager off <em>again, </em>because it was ‘a fucking lot’. And this was just the accommodation building. R rolled his eyes, hiding the slow-growing fear, creeping into the bottom of his stomach. Stood in front of them, was a grand Georgian-style building, with brown exposed brick surrounded by white stone walls, columns and stairs. It appeared more like a hotel then student accommodation.</p><p>“Don’t think about it,” Eponine stated as they walked up the stairs into the office.</p><p>“What? I haven’t, taken, - done anything,” Montparnasse shrugged, putting his hands in his surely-too-tight jeans pockets, “Not yet.”</p><p> </p><p>The reception had a grand ceiling with the brick continuingly exposed. R had exposed brick back at home, not as some sort of display feature, but because the landlord had stripped the drywall down after damp winter a years ago. Modern interior clashed with the traditional architecture style, glass walls dividing the space. The Georgian entrance was just a front to the student apartment complex, but it added to the persona of the place: intimidating, historic yet progressive. R fingers itched to sketch the bold angles and lines.</p><p>“What do you need to do Gio?” his mother asked, eyes gazing around.</p><p>“Sigh in, I think.”</p><p>He stayed stood in the doorway, almost blocking the entrance. Eponine rolled her eyes, and nudged him towards the front desk, his body forgetting to function.</p><p>“Hi,” R started, “um?”</p><p>“Name?” the receptionist asked.</p><p>“Grantaire, Giovanni Grantaire.”</p><p>The receptionist smiled wide, with bright white teeth, “Welcome Giovanni! Here is your key: apartment 13, room 2. I just need you a form of ID, and your signature here.”</p><p>R handed over his passport, and scribbled on a bit of paper, not taking note of what it was.</p><p>“Thank you,” next shed handed him a file, “Here is all your welcome information. Do you need to register your parent’s car?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Well, if you have any questions, feel free to come and ask. Over there, by the backdoor, is Toussaint, he’s the RA for your block,” she gestured to a student by the door, “He will take you up to your room.”</p><p>R nodded to his family and moved to where ‘Toussaint’ was stood.</p><p> </p><p>The student was large, standing at the same height as Montparnasse, but with the bulk on his muscles R’s friend lacked. He didn’t exactly look like the kind of person who came into mind when you said ‘classical music’. <em>But what does that even mean? </em>R thought, <em>I don’t look anything close to that stereotype.</em></p><p>“Welcome fresher,” the student shook his hand, sounding slightly sarcastic, “I’m Bahorel. Let’s get you settle in. This your family?”</p><p>R glanced back at the approaching bundle of teenagers and his mother.</p><p>“Um, yeah?”</p><p>Bahorel let out a wide smile, kinder than the receptionist’s had been, “You must be the sister.”</p><p>He took the hand of R’s mother, who blushed, “I’m Gio’s mother.”</p><p>“My apologies madame,” the student laughed, “Alright folks, follow me.”</p><p>Bahorel led the group into a courtyard, and up some stairs, to a door on the top floor.</p><p>“What’s your name fresher?” Bahorel asked.</p><p>“Grantaire. Or R.”</p><p>The RA handed a key over, “Here’s your digs. Let yourself in. If you need anything, RA’s flat is number one, above the reception. Come anytime. Apart from Sundays. I’m not on duty on Sundays.”</p><p>He checked R’s key worked and then left into the crowds of freshers and parents.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Noises were coming from further in the apartment: other new students, new roommates.</p><p>“This is so exciting,” Ms Grantaire started to tear up, “I never thought I’d see the day my little Gio would move out!”</p><p>Montparnasse rolled his eyes jumping onto R’s new bed, “Does this mean I get to have your room?”</p><p>R shoved him off, “No. Maybe now I’m not there you might actually go home to your own flat, y’know where you live and pay rent.”</p><p>The other teenager scoffed, “Maybe I’d actually get some sleep without you there, and all your snoring.”</p><p>“It’s not like you don’t snore.”</p><p>“I don’t”</p><p>Eponine sat on the desk chair, “Believe me you both do.”</p><p>Ms Grantaire hugged her son, “Gio dear, I can hear you from my room some nights. You too Lucian.”</p><p>This just made Eponine chuckle as she started snooping through R’s things.</p><p>“Did you want us to help you unpack? I can organise your clothes for you. We could go food shopping, so you are all prepared?”</p><p>R shook his head, “It’s okay Ma, you head home. I’ll work it out.”</p><p>She nodded but kept him in an embrace, “If you need anything, call the phone. Any help, with your washing or food. Call me.”<br/>
“Honestly Ma, I’ll be fine.”</p><p>She finally let go, kissing him on his head, “<em>Ok. Look after yourself Giovanni. If only your father could see you today</em>.”</p><p>R kept the frown from breaking out on his face, but was glad she spoke in Italian, privatising the moment, “<em>Love you Ma</em>.”</p><p>“Don’t get into too much trouble,” R told Montparnasse as he pulled his friend into a ‘bro-hug’, “Remember, just down the train line.”</p><p>“I’ll keep that in mind,” he laughed, and then slipped something into R’s hoodie pocket, “For freshers week. Hope you drink all these assholes under the table. Any new friends of yours want anything, give ‘em my name.”</p><p>That thought alone made R shudder, “Sure Monty. Just don’t get arrested before I come home for Christmas.”<br/>
Montparnasse rolled his eyes, leaving, begrudgingly taking Ms Grantaire’s offered arm. With the tall gothic teenager moved out the room. Eponine stood, with eyes that were almost damp. She smiled sadly and pulled out an envelope.</p><p>“This is for you.”</p><p>R felt the cash in the envelope, “No. I can’t take this.”<br/>
She sighed, exhausted, “Take it. It’s for Christmas and birthday.  My contribution to your music career. And when you win a <em>Grammy, </em>you can pay me back.”</p><p>R paused, he couldn’t take the money, it was like daylight robbery. She has Gavroche to think about, had so much more need. <em>But Eponine doesn’t do charity. Eponine looks after her friends.</em></p><p>Carefully, he said, “Ep, you need this more than I do.”</p><p>She silenced him with a wave of her hand, “It’s just tip money from Dad’s pub. And it’s better you take it, spend it on food, or books or anything, rather than Dad spends it on God knows what.”</p><p>R took the money, it turning into his hand, and hugged the closet thing he had to a sister. A tear threatened to fall in her eyes, as she turned away, “See you later.”<br/>
Out the window, R watched as she ran to catch up with his mother and Monty. They strolled across the courtyard and out the door. He sat on the bed, kicking as his suitcase. The room felt suddenly bigger. R was alone. Grantaire never did too well on his own.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank You. Tusen Takk.</p><p>Am I doing this correctly?</p><p>Fun fact one - I'm trying to do two chapters a week but we'll see.</p><p>fun fact two  - ABBA is the bomb, and I can totally see Grantaire jamming to it.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. A Minor Scale</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>What do you do on a first night at uni?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Woop, another chapter forward.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>Suite Bergamasque, L.75: III. Clair de Lune</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Claude Debussy</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p><p>Chapter 4: A Minor Scale</p><p> </p><p>As a kid, Grantaire would dream of days where he’d have the apartment to himself. It was always noisy back then. Montparnasse and his foster family had lived in the flat below his, forever arguing, crashing and banging. The old women in the one above, always spoke, no shouted, on the phone with her daughter. And when Grantaire’s father was still alive, he’d sit in front of the broken TV, and turn the volume up to the max. He’d pray for days when his father went out drinking, and his Ma would go to work. Grantaire would practice scales, octaves, and arpeggios until his fingers hurt.</p><p> </p><p>Now he was alone and didn’t know how to feel. Unpacking didn’t take long, and so he settled on the desk chair, looking out the window at the other new students and their parents. Those students would probably go out that night, either into the city or to the union bar. R, surprisingly, did not feel like drinking, or partying, or talking to anyone really. He contemplated forcing himself to socialise with his new flatmates, go to a club and get absolutely shit-faced. In this mood? It probably wasn’t the best idea.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, he ignored the knock on his door, and hid in his room until they all left. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms and a kitchen. At around nine-thirty, the building started to quieten down, as students left for the welcome events. When the courtyard emptied out, R wandered down the street to the supermarket. The local Tesco was mostly empty. It was a little expensive, but R couldn’t be bothered to walk further to find something else. A calming Debussy piece played through his headphones as he stared at the many different types of milk. <em>Why are there so many types of milk?</em> An older man budged passed him smelling of the distinct Jamerson, grasping R back into familiar feeling of home. – That combined with the Debussy, captivated R in memories of his friends, on the other side of the city. Eponine was probably trying (and failing) to put a hyperactive Gavroche to bed, while Montparnasse would be lazily stood behind the bar of the Thenardier pub, cutting off the locals one drink at a time, maybe hustling the pool table, as it got closer to midnight.</p><p> </p><p>By nine, Eponine and Grantaire were inseparable. The teachers had long given up trying to divide them, as the two strange kids never worked well when put with others. At some point they had both been the new foreign kids, Eponine: French, Grantaire: Italian. They spent lessons speaking in hushed whispered at the back of the classroom. Back then the Thenardiers had a little money, business, both legitimate and not so, was blooming.</p><p>It was a rainy autumn day, when Lucian Montparnasse entered their lives. It was mid-October, and the weatherman had predicted storms that evening.</p><p>“Class, this is our a new classmate, Lucian Montparnasse,” their teacher had smiled, the little kid at her side scowled, “He has joined us from Scandinavia.”</p><p>The new student, <em>Lucian Montparnasse, </em>looked less than pleased. His dark hair contrasted with lighter eyebrows.</p><p>“There is a spare seat on Eponine’s table,” the teacher nodded, pushing the kid in the duo’s direction.</p><p>‘Lucian Montparnasse’ was short for his age, with a black hoodie over the uniform. He dragged himself over to the table, taking the seat opposite the duo.</p><p>“My name is Montparnasse,” he’d introduced, accent think, a bit unsure.</p><p>“But that’s your second name!” Grantaire said.</p><p>Montparnasse shrugged.</p><p>“Cool. I’m Grantaire.”<br/>
Eponine scoffed, “No you’re not. You’re Giovanni.”<br/>
Nine-year-old Grantaire shook his head, “No! I’m now going to be Grantaire.”<br/>
Little Eponine had turned away from him, “Boys are stupid.”</p><p> </p><p>At lunch, Montparnasse had hidden in the library, pulling a dusty book out his hoodie pocket. Moving suddenly to a new country sucked especially when your adopted parents wouldn’t tell you why they had to move. They didn’t tell him anything, <em>you’re too young, you don’t know anything. </em>Montparnasse thought the whole thing was bullshit. He knew<em> some things.</em> He wasn’t hiding, he was moping. Moping in the library was better than speaking to the other kids as they asked him stupid questions about ‘Scandinavia’.</p><p>“Norge,” he said to himself, shaking his head at the thought of his new teacher, “Nor-ge.”</p><p>He’d just settled down to read when <em>music</em> interrupted him.</p><p>“Gio,” a little voice whined, “Stop! We’ll get into trouble <em>again.</em>”</p><p>The piano continued to play.</p><p>“I don’t want another detention. Dad’ll get angry.”<br/>
The piano playing faltered, by promptly carried on. Montparnasse creeped around the corner of the bookshelf. A battered brown upright sat at the entrance to the library, left in the corridor. He moved closer to look, suddenly catching Eponine’s eye.</p><p>“What are you doing in there?” she pointed at him, “You’re not allowed to be in there at lunch.”</p><p>Montparnasse frowned, “And?”<br/>
Grantaire stopped playing, “But Ep! Ma said it was a hard piece for me to learn! But it learnt it!”</p><p>The child began to play again, Debussy, something along the lines of Clair de Lune. The new student failed to hide the impressed look.</p><p>“Giovanni, Eponnine, Lucian!”</p><p>Their teacher stood above them; arms crossed.</p><p>“What are you doing?”</p><p>Montparnasse glanced at the other two, before sighing, “None of your damn business.”</p><p>They’d gotten a weeks’ worth of detention, which had, in retrospect, only bonded the three.</p><p> </p><p><em>“Giovanni, Eponine, Lucian,” </em>became <em>“Gio, Ponine, Luc,” </em>became <em>“Mr Grantaire, Miss Thenardier, Montparnasse,” </em>which eventually settled to become, <em>“R, Ep, Monty.” </em></p><p>
  
</p><p>Teachers cursed having them in classes together.</p><p> </p><p>Someone pushing R out the way. He dragged a hand through his messed-up curls. The memory broken, he grabbed a random pint of milk and ambled back to the student accommodation. The city was getting busy, as students, tourists and sociable adults went out for the night. The theatres would kick out soon, as the clubs started to open. R could not imagine living anywhere but a city. The constant noise and buzz were always there as a needed distraction. When he got high enough, Montparnasse would open-up about his childhood in Norway, with the mountains overlooking Oslo, dramatic and enchanting. He’d talk about how hide on top of the opera house from his parents for hours, only going home when dusk settled. It sounded breath-taking; it sounded intimidating, - <em>just like Montparnasse. </em>R smiled to himself and then he remembered the weed.</p><p> </p><p>On his first evening at university, R spent the late hours sat on a fire-escape, smoking. The activity which would normally be so natural, <em>something he didn’t even think about doing</em>, was alien in this new place. No kids staying up late were playing in the street. No mothers and fathers shouting and arguing. No young lads fighting or getting high or both. The courtyard for the students was secluded from the city, a little quiet peace in the busy city. As he put the joint out on the cool metal, R’s hand shook in the moonlight. <em>Talk about a big fish moving from a small tank to the ocean. </em>R felt like a mortal surrounded by giants. – And he hadn’t even met anyone yet.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tusen Takk.</p><p>fun fact one - this is the piece i used to listen to when shopping at uni. always go shopping at 9pm on a friday. everyone else is going out, you can shop in piece.   ......   that showed how uneventful my uni life was.</p><p>fun fact two - my childhood bestfriend is italian.</p><p>oh look a third fun fact - I live for, despite his father, R having a cool Ma who looks after his friends. mood.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Reconnecting with a Song</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>we meet the flatmates. and an old friend.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you for getting to chapter five. wow amazing. you are the best, honestly.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Blue Lips </em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Regina Spektor</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">Chapter Five: Reconnecting with a Song</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    
  </b>
</p><p>The accommodation was arranged in a rectangle with the courtyard in the middle, and office and entrance/exit to the right. Each apartment was the same, four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a kitchen. All the front doors led out to an open metal walkway, with stairs leading between all the floors and the courtyard.</p><p> </p><p>R’s morning started early, too early, with next-to-no sleep from the night before. He showered, before any of the other roommates got up, made a coffee and settled on the stairs outside the apartment. Smoking was banned in the building (obviously), and the smoking shelter was at the far end of the courtyard. No one was around to stop him, so the stairs would do. The morning sun was just coming up over the city, and lighting half of the yard. A few glass bottles had been left in the grass, and some student vomit was splattered on the ground next to the office. R felt half fell asleep there, eyes open, smoking, staring.</p><p> </p><p>The first time Grantaire tried smoking, he was fourteen and alone. His Ma was out at work, <em>Dad was gone by then. </em>It was August, and he was getting bored of the school holidays. He sat on the windowsill with a packet and lighter he stole out of Montparnasse’s rucksack at school. The gothic teenager would kill him once he realised. The lighter felt natural in his hand. Summers playing in the park with the other two, setting fire to things for fun, meant Grantaire was used to fire. The cigarettes felt heavy, odd, like he was nine years old again, passing a new packet to his Dad out of the shopping bags. Montparnasse had started the school year before, ‘socially smoking’ after his adopted parents had gone missing for three months, leaving him and three other children to be handed over to the state. No one had messed with Montparnasse anyway, but now people actively avoided the lanky teen, who smelt like a fifty-year-old gentleman and spoke with the tongue of the devil.</p><p>It had burned in his lungs, and his cheeks went red with guilt or embarrassment. Grantaire checked himself out in his shit phone camera, posing with the smoke, trying to look a little bit older, more threatening, like his friends. In the end, he just looked like his Dad. <em>– which fucking scared him. </em>He didn’t try smoking again until October that year, at a Halloween party. Slipping outside with Montparnasse, the two had shared a packet, as the drum and bass music blared through the street.</p><p>“Since when did you start smoking?” Montparnasse questioned, frowning, but offering him a cigarette anyway.</p><p>Grantaire had shrugged, already drunk, barely an hour into the party, “Since when did life get this shit?”</p><p>“Fair enough.”</p><p>The boys had gotten a bollocking from Eponine when she found out, and she’d made them promise to never smoke again. She started smoking the next summer.</p><p> </p><p>There was a bang of a door coming from further into the apartment that woke R from his thoughts. The lights from the kitchen flicked on. He sighed and stood, stretching out. It was now, or never. He had to introduce himself. R wouldn’t consider himself a shy kid, not by a long shot, but that didn’t mean that there wasn’t insecurities under the dry charisma. On his way to the kitchen, he checked himself out in the bathroom mirror. Jumper, old jeans, and greasy-messy hair. It'd do. Give them the minimum to start with, and then anything will look good. Music played from the kitchen, with voices laughing around the melodies. Taking a deep breath, R shrugged to himself, and moved towards the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>The other three roommates were sat around the old TV, watching a music channel. They turned as the door opened. Two girls and a boy.</p><p>“Morning,” R greeted lowly, a smile playing at his lips.</p><p>He grabbed a mug and pour himself some juice. One of the girls stood, with flowing blonde hair and a sundress, looking like Miss Honey from Matilda. A memory of yellow from his childhood flashed through his mind.</p><p>“Hi,” she smiled sweetly, “I’m Cosette.”</p><p>She had a familiar face, with naturally cherry red lips.</p><p>R frowned, “Cosette?”</p><p>The girl blushed, "Well, its actually Euphra-”</p><p>“Euphrasie.”</p><p>Cosette’s perfect eyebrows spiked up, “Huh?”</p><p>She hadn’t change much, but she was clean now, with no dirt under her fingernails. Her light laugh and sweet smile were the same.</p><p>“You probably don’t remember me,” he chuckled, shaking the hair out of his face, “I was Epon-”</p><p>“Eponine’s friend!” she smiled again, pulling him into an awkward hug, “Giov-”</p><p>“Grantaire, R’s fine now though.”</p><p>“What are you here for?!”</p><p>“Piano. I guess someone actually thought I was alright.”</p><p>“Piano!” she nodded, settling by the kitchen counter, “You always were bashing around on that thing. I play oboe now. Papa got me lessons. Turns out I am quite good at it.”</p><p>
  <em>The ‘Papa’ that appeared from nowhere when they are eleven and took you always to have a better life: just like in all of our childhood dreams.</em>
</p><p>The other girl stood up, leaning against the back of the sofa, “So how do you two know each other?”</p><p>R laughed, “She used to live near me, when we were kids.”</p><p>
  <em>In an abusive house with my best-friend, but it's better that was don't get into that.</em>
</p><p>“How is Eponine?” Cosette asked nervously, “And the baby?”</p><p>“Baby? Oh. Yeah. Gavroche is good. Eponine’s still at college.”</p><p>It all felt a little odd, a little too pleasant, especially for someone who walked out of your life years ago and was never heard of again. There was an awkward silence, Cosette staring at R, R staring at his drink.</p><p>The other girl cleared her throat and rolled her eyes, “Cool. Well now that’s over. I’m Musichetta, singing major.”</p><p>Musichetta stood tall, and stern. Her eyes glowed in confidence, as she offered a hand to shake.</p><p>R took it, “Like I said, R is fine. Piano major.”</p><p>The final roommate, a pale boy with glasses – the kind of round glasses you can only pull off if you are fashionable or a true geek – stood to join them in the kitchen area.</p><p>“I’m Oliver Joly,” he didn’t take R’s offered hand, but grinned sweetly, “But everyone calls me Joly. I play bassoon.”</p><p><em>I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bassoon in real life, </em>R thought, as he nodded, "That's cool."</p><p>“So, we don’t need to worry about google maps now, Joly,” Cosette smiled, “R’s lived here his whole life! Are you still in the same flat?”</p><p>It probably didn’t mean to be rude.</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?” R asked, also not trying to sound too harsh, but R was, after all, proud of his family and home.</p><p>The girl blushed, “Oh God no R! I didn’t mean it like that.”</p><p>Musichetta intervened the conversation again, “We’re looking to do some exploring, find somewhere independent to eat, visit a bookshop or two. Got any suggestions, city native?”</p><p>This singing major had gained the respect of R within those first lines they’d exchanged. She effortlessly charismatic and warm (maybe it was a singer thing).</p><p>R shrugged, “I guess.”</p><p>
  <em>He couldn’t remember the last time he wondered into this area of the city. Why pay £4 for a coffee when the local shop at home offers one for £2? Montparnasse was the coffee snob, always walking around with a Starbucks or an independent brand, depending on how hipster or basic he felt. Eponine always gave him shit for it.</em>
</p><p>“Is it far? Do we have to get the train?” Joly wondered, moving towards the other three in the kitchen area.</p><p><em>There is a coffeeshop near here that Ep, Monty, and R took Gavroche to for his last birthday, </em>R thought.</p><p>“I know a place,” he nodded to himself, “I think it's one stop away.”</p><p> </p><p>The coffee shop was a tourist trap in the summer, and sat in completely gentrified hipster part of the city. Independent bookshops and record shops lined the street. Gavroche had chosen the café after seeing it one day when he was out doing jobs for Montparnasse. <em>It has themed drinks! And pancakes. </em>He’d told them. <em>And the customers can choose the music!</em> So, Monty, Ep, R had taken Gavroche there for his twelfth birthday, and they’d actually had a good time.</p><p> </p><p>“So here,” R pointed as they approached the building, “Café Musain. I don’t think its French, just the name.”</p><p>R opened the door, and waved them in. Despite the nice weather, the café was surprising empty. The group sat in the corner, with enough caffeine and sugar between them to pull at least three all-nighters. It was a little uncomfortable. No one ever talks about how weird university halls are. You’re thrown in at the deep end with strangers, and it’s like here, ‘<em>make friends</em>!’. The first few days, before you meet anyone on your course, you're kind of stuck in limbo. </p><p>“So why did you choose here?” R asked finally, when the silence was becoming too unbearable.</p><p>Joly, who had calmed a little once R, the local, had relaxed, grinned, “I guess because it’s one of the best music school in the country. No contest really.”</p><p>“Debatable,” Musichetta added, half-joking, “But they were the only uni that offered me money so here I am.”</p><p>R perked up, “Scholarship?”</p><p>The singer nodded, “Full ride, plus allowance towards living costs. My family moved to Belgium when I was seven. Political asylum through my father. Guess that’s enough minority to warrant funding.”</p><p>The tone of Musichetta’s voice suggest she was very proud of her family history.</p><p>“What did you sing for the audition?” Joly asked, staring at the singer.</p><p>“An aria, and a Vaugh-Williams song,” she stated, “I wanted to specialise in opera, but there wasn’t the funding.”</p><p>She turned to R.</p><p>“What about you city-native? I love my parents but I couldn’t wait to move away from my home-town.”</p><p>“Away from your home-town?” R laughed, “You’re in another country.”</p><p>She rolled her eyes, “Exactly. So, why?”</p><p>R shrugged, “Cheaper compared to other places. Scholarship money. Close to Ma if she needs help. Closer to my friends.”</p><p>“Which one?”</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>Cosette blushed a little, almost shocked at her own voice, “Sorry. What scholarship?”</p><p>“Oh,” R played with his coffee mug, “Y’know the soloist one?”</p><p>“The Lamarque Scholarship?”</p><p>“That’s like one of the most exclusive scholarships at the university,” Joly added “There are only two a year.”</p><p>It was exclusive, and R had felt terrified at being offered it. Alongside his college academic merit and home situation, the admissions team had praised him a lot, saying even without the core 'classical foundations' he was very naturally gifted. They'd overlooked his bad GCSE grades and accepted him almost purely on his talent for piano.</p><p>“Don’t you get to perform with as a soloist with the orchestra each semester?” Musichetta said.</p><p>It was true, and that also terrified R. He'd had nightmares over the past week about it. Forgetting the music mid-performance. Falling off the stage. Failing to turn up to the concert in time. Anything and everything. His Ma had told him to calm down, she'd be there, in the front row, cheering him along. </p><p>"You got that scholarship?" Cosette asked again.</p><p>R couldn’t help but blush, <em>God he needed a smoke, </em>“Yeah. Well, I got that one.”</p><p>There was a moment of quiet.</p><p> </p><p>When Grantaire had first thought about going to university, it had been to study media or graphic design at the local polytechnic. He’d live at home, study something fairly useful, and probably work part-time alongside. It was Eponine, as it always was, who had suggested it, the November of their final year at college.<br/>“What about those fancy schools?” she’d said, “Y’know like the conservatoire next to Grand Park?”</p><p>It was lunchtime, and despite the cold weather, the trio were sat outside, mainly so Monty could smoke.</p><p>“No way.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>Grantaire had huffed, pulling his hood up, “Because, I’m not good enough. People learn music from birth and study it specifically with conservatoires in mind. I just play for fun.”<br/>“Oh, so you’re doing A Level Music, Grade 8 Piano and Grade 8 Theory in the same year <em>just for fun</em>?” Montparnasse remarked.</p><p>“Exactly.”</p><p>Grantaire stole Montparnasse’s cigarette, “Just shut it.”</p><p><em>It was too late anyway, </em>he thought. Of course he’d had a look. Anyone who plays a classical instrument has probably had a curious look at conservatoires, just to see what it would be like. But Grantaire was sensible, he knew it was only a dream, only a fantasy. He sighed and took a bite of his sandwich.</p><p>“I just think you should look. What is there to lose?”</p><p>“£90 application fee?” Montparnasse offered.</p><p>“How do you know that?” Grantaire frowned.</p><p>“She made me research with her.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“We went to the college library to google it,” Montparnasse explained whilst stealing the cigarette back from Grantaire.</p><p>Eponine clenched her fists, “Can you two stop? Please!”</p><p>“Why are you so worked up about this?”</p><p>She turned to him, a little flushed, “I just think you have the potential, y’know. Why waste it?”</p><p>“Why don’t you apply to uni then?”</p><p>“That’s not fair R.”</p><p>Grantaire shook his head, “No if I should be living up to my potential, then you should be too.”</p><p>“Because! I failed my exams last year! Because I have to do another year! Because I have Gav to look after. Because my parents' business is almost always at risk of failing. Don’t be so stupid,” she almost shouted.</p><p>Montparnasse slipped out a chuckle.</p><p>“Monty you’re being such an asshole, you agreed with me in the library!”</p><p>Grantaire's eyes flipped between his friends, “What?”</p><p>Montparnasse looked away.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Grantaire stuttered out, “Ep, I’m sorry.”</p><p>She shrugged, “Fine. It’s whatever.”</p><p>“No. I know you have a lot going on.”</p><p>“You’ll apply then?” Montparnasse cut in, "And stop being a dick about it?"</p><p>"Only if you stop being an asshole," Grantaire said and then sighed.</p><p>He’d apply. It wasn’t that he was scared of getting rejected by a university or conservatoire. In the end there’s a lot of factors that go into admissions. Grantaire was petrified of being told he was not good enough - that despite his years staying inside, teaching himself scales, asking for discount lessons, all that work was for nothing. What if in the audition, they just laughed? What if they told him it was a joke?</p><p>Getting rejected from a university: sure, its depressing, disapointing, maybe even degrading, but you pick yourself up and move on. Getting rejected because you’re not actually that good at the one thing everything thinks your supposed to be good at: crushing, life-ending.</p><p> </p><p>“So, any plans for this evening?” Musichetta asked.</p><p>R blinked, “Tonight?”</p><p>“You have to come,” she stated, “You didn’t come out last night.”</p><p>Cosette shrugged, “Go to the bar again?”</p><p>“No. It was dull last night, and so overpriced.”</p><p>“I spoke with the RA yesterday,” Joly said, “He invited me to his flat for drinks.”</p><p>Musichetta smiled, “Yes. That sounds like fun! Right?”</p><p>She looked around at the other two. Cosette just nodded.</p><p>“It does,” R grinned, “They’re second or third years yeah?”</p><p>Joly nodded.</p><p>“Well they probably know the best places to drink and party around here,” R lifted up his coffee in a gesture of ‘cheers’.</p><p>Getting shit-faced sounded like a great idea.</p><p>“What time?” Cosette asked.</p><p>“I think they said 7ish, 8 maybe?” Joly stated, “R, you said something about there being an independent bookshop around here?”</p><p>R waved in a southwardly direction, “Somewhere that way. Probably a five-minute walk.”</p><p>“Shall we go?”</p><p>The others nodded.</p><p>“Sure,” Musichetta stood, as Cosette piled up their cups and plates.</p><p> </p><p>The bookshop was actually about a ten-minutes’ walk away, but no one said anything about it. Joly and Musichetta went ahead into the shop as R hung back. He moved around the corner and pulled out a cigarette.</p><p>“How are they actually?” a timid voice asked next to him.</p><p>R opened one eye to see Cosette. She didn’t make eye contact.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>She fiddled with her hair, “I mean, I really wanted to reach out. I did. I just kept putting it off, and I was a child, I didn't know better. And we were never all that close anyway.”</p><p>R closed his eyes tightly, before sighing and turning to her, “She’d probably still want to hear from you. She’d be icy about it sure, but it’d be good to know that you’re okay, after all these years.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>There was no way to sugar-coat it. Eponine and Cosette hadn’t been that close as kids. They'd put-up with each other, sometimes having moments of sister-like fun. Mainly they’d chase after R, or later Montparnasse, getting them to play pirates or adventurers with them. Cosette had been taken away a year after they’d met the strange gothic boy, on her tenth birthday. It had been the talk of the street for weeks. The Thenardiers' hadn't said anything about it. </p><p>“They are fine,” R added quickly, before he regretted it, “Thenardier still has the pub, and they still live in the flat above it. You remember Montparnasse, the weird kid? Well he works there now.”</p><p>Cosette seemed pleased with the information.</p><p>“And Eponine’s still at college, but she is thinking of going to university,” he put out the remains of his cigarette, moving to go inside, “But that’s all I’m giving you. If you want more, ask her yourself.”</p><p>She whispered a thank you, before following him into the bookshop. R put on an easy smile as he approached their other two flatmates. University was really fucking weird.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tusen Takk! Thank You!</p><p>fun fact one - there were a lot of classical instruments I had never seen until I went to uni. I embarrassed myself a lot in rehearsals. </p><p>fun fact two - I don't describe much of the characters' appearances, because I know everyone has their own version of each les amis, so go with that. </p><p>fun fact three - I love writing dialogue, but I hate writing it, you get me?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. A Bunch of Third Years</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Stuff happens, we meet people, and I'm bad at dialogue - sorry!</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So I wrote this as a way to ignore my master's dissertation, and now I'm writing my masters dissertation to ignore this. Wow, I need to get my life together.</p><p>Here is more introductions. Next chapter will introduce more. And then after there introductions are done, stuff can begin woop. </p><p>I'm a mess, I've had a few glasses of wine. so not gonna lie, this aint my best work, :)))))))) (sorry for any spelling mistakes)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong> <em>Rain </em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Ben Platt</em> </strong>
</p><p>Chapter Six: A Bunch of Third Years</p><p>
  <strong>  </strong>
</p><p>It turned out that Joly had also met Bahorel when moving in, and the charming third year had taken such a liking to the small bassoonist that he’d invited Joly to pre-drinks. The flat was above the reception, with a single staircase leading up to a front door. The four freshers stood crowded at the flat entrance.</p><p>“You should knock,” Cosette said to Joly, “He invited you.”</p><p>Joly looked rather sick and pale. He’d spent the hour before they left talking about meeting strangers, the dangers of alcohol, and how to notice if you had been drugged.</p><p>“What if it was just a joke?” his eyes darted between them all, “What if Bahorel hadn’t meant it?”</p><p>Musichetta rolled her eyes, “I don’t think so Joly.”</p><p>The bassoonist blushed and looked away, “R should do it.”</p><p>R blinked, pulling the already half empty whisky bottle away from his lips. He’d already smoked a joint and drunk three whisky shots too many.</p><p>“Why? I don’t know him.”<br/>“You said you also met Bahorel.”</p><p>“And?” R leaned against the staircase, “Are we knocking or not?”</p><p>Musichetta sighed and pushed the group out the way.</p><p>“Idiots,” she tutted, as she knocked heavily on the door.</p><p>Bahorel answered, towering over them with a large warming smile and white sunglasses on his head. The RA gestured to the group, “The freshers are here!” he called back into the house, “Welcome. Come through.”<br/>The inside was living stereotype of a student house. The kitchen/living room was a mess of bottles, cardboard boxes and unwashed plates. It had nicer furniture than the fresher flats, with sofa that actually looked comfortable, and a fridge that could probably keep food cold, rather than lukewarm. A lanky ginger man, with enough leg length to give Montparnasse a run for his money, was sat on the sofa eating pasta. He put a hand up in welcoming.</p><p>“Hi,” he smiled, “Welcome first years.”</p><p>Bahorel sat down next to the man, “Don’t mind Feuilly, he’s a part-time horn master, part-time working man.”</p><p>Feuilly rolled his eyes, “Make yourselves at home. What Bahorel means, is that not all of us can live off our parents’ money. I’m a part time student.”</p><p>Joly seemed a hesitant, but Musichetta took his arm and they sat down, leaving Cosette and R to take the final sofa together. Things were quiet between them now, after their talk outside the bookshop. Cosette had barely spoken to R the rest of the afternoon, only smiling embarrassingly when he addressed her. <em>Whatever</em>, R thought, <em>if that’s how she’s going to deal with this, then so be it.</em></p><p>“Sorry for the mess. Jehan isn’t here to implement the cleaning rota,” Bahorel shrugged, pushing a stray pizza box under the sofa.</p><p>“Jehan’s going to kill you when they come home to this mess,” Feuilly commented, “So any more horn players?”</p><p>R shook his head, drinking from his bottle of whisky. It was awkward. What were they meant to do? Sit in a circle and say a fact about themselves.</p><p>“No, but if I remember correctly, Joly is a bassoonist?” Bahorel asked.</p><p>The student nodded, “And bass clarinet, when its needed.”</p><p>“And, you are Cosette right? Your Dad’s a professor here?”</p><p>Cosette sat up straight, and nodded, smiling a little, “Yes. He is. I’m an oboist.”</p><p>“You’re Dad works here?” R spat, a little whisky dripping from the opened bottle he was grasping.</p><p>She shrugged, “Yes? Professor Valjean, he’s taught musicology here for about ten years.”</p><p>R nodded, looking away. No wonder Cosette got into this university.</p><p>Musichetta pulled a bottle of wine out her bag, saving the conversation, “I’m Musichetta, a singing student, and if I could, may I ask for a glass for my wine, so I don’t have to look like an alcoholic, like our flatmate R.”</p><p>The older students laughed, Bahorel passing a glass to her. R frowned dramatically before flashing a charismatic smirk towards her. When he’d pulled out Montparnasse’s gifted weed Joly had looked like he wanted throw-up. Musichetta had told him to not be an asshole and go smoke up, away from the flat. (and he had).<br/>“I’m not an alcoholic,” R joked, but the word felt bitter and dirty in his mouth.</p><p>“It was just a joke,” Musichetta shrugged, kicking out her leg at him.</p><p>Cosette caught his eyes for a second, and a slither of understand jolted through the both. Her eyes moved away quickly, focusing on her drink.</p><p>“R?” Feuilly asked, leaning back in the sofa.</p><p>“Grantaire,” R gave, “Piano major.”</p><p>“He’s one of the Lamarque scholars,” Joly added.</p><p>“Really?” Bahorel smirked, “Not what I expected, normally you lot are all try-hards.”</p><p>R took a long gulp from his whisky, “I always seem to exceed expectations.”</p><p>Joly jumped on the sofa; the door slammed open and then loudly shut.</p><p>“Children,” a melodic voice called through the flat, “We’re home, and we come bearing gifts.”</p><p>A bald young man stumbled into the room, followed by a ginger fairy. R blinked. Yes, a literally tree nymph. He wasn’t hallucinating.</p><p>“Freshers,” Bahorel addressed them, “This is Bossuet, resident tuba player. He’s the longest running member of the first-year orchestra.”</p><p>“What?” Joly asked.</p><p>‘Bossuet’ just put his hands up in surrender, leaning against the kitchen counter, “It’s my third time re-doing first year.”</p><p>Cosette let out a nervous chuckle, “Really?”<br/>The older student sighed, “Javert’s class is feckin’ hard.”</p><p>He rolled his eyes as the other students laughed.<br/>“It is,” the final flatmate spoke, delicately sitting upload the dining table, “But you did also drop your tuba mid-performance.”<br/>“That wasn’t his fault Jehan,” Feuilly laughed, “The chair was broken.”</p><p>‘Jehan’ moved their eyes to the new-commers, “Jean, or Jehan. Flutist. I’m a first year too, but I didn’t have to retake, I took a foundation year.”</p><p>“This is Musichetta, Joly, R and Cosette. Cosette’s father is Valjean!” Bahorel explained.</p><p>“That’s great ‘Rel,” Jehan gazed around the flat, “But whilst you were entertaining freshers, did you think to clean the flat? What was the rule last year?”</p><p>“Keep the mess contained to our rooms,” Bahorel shrugged, “But its fresher’s week, we’re allowed to make a mess.”<br/>“So which club are we going to?” Musichetta asked, wine bottle nearly empty.</p><p> </p><p>The club was filled with drunk students from all over the city. R had never really been to a club before, normally opting for a bar or the local pub. Upon entering, Bahorel dragged the girls off to the dancefloor as Bossuet and Joly headed for a booth.</p><p>“So, R right?” Jehan slipped an arm through R’s and moved him towards the bar.</p><p>“Yes. Short for Grantaire, Giovanni Grantaire,” R supplied, definitely almost drunk.</p><p>“Giovanni? Romantic. Italian?”</p><p>R nodded and swallowed a feeling.<br/>“My grandmother is Italian,” Jehan chatted, long ginger hair flowing around their shoulders, “But she moved to Germany and married a Frenchman. What composer do you play the most?”<br/>R frowned at the stranger, “Um. I guess Rachmaninov? Or Schumann.”</p><p>“Ah Pianist then?”<br/>“Yeah.”</p><p>Jehan smiled, “I do love the intensity of Rachmaninov, although it does get a little too much sometimes. But Schumann? Or should I say the Schumanns. The love, and longing and sorrow in their music is just fascinating.”</p><p>Blinking, and trying to keep up with the more sober tree nymph, R spoke, “You should of studied poetry.”</p><p>They just kept the pixie-like smile, as the two finally got to the front of the queue, “What can I get you to drink, Grantaire?”<br/>“Another shot of whisky.”</p><p> </p><p>The first time Grantaire, Eponine and Montparnasse went on a night out, they didn’t make it to the club. It was January, and Monty had finally turned 18, catching up with the them. Legally, they could finally go on a night out together.</p><p>“What about that gay club near the central train station?” she asked, as she applied her make-up.</p><p>They were in Grantaire’s flat, pre-drinking.</p><p>“Sure. But I’m pretty sure one of the bouncer’s works with your Dad,” Montparnasse shrugged, stealing eyeliner from Eponine’s bag.</p><p>She sighed, “Bastard. Whatever, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”</p><p>“Are you ladies ready?” Grantaire asked, rolling his eyes between the two punks gathered at the mirror.</p><p>Montparnasse glared. Grantaire would never admit it, but Monty did look good in make-up. All that pale skin, with great bone structure.</p><p>“You wearing that?” the gothic boy turned his nose up.</p><p>Grantaire looked down at his jeans and t-shirt, “What else am I going to wear?”<br/>Montparnasse just sighed, doing up his black shirt, “Hipster.”<br/>“Goth.”<br/>“Boys.”<br/>They turned to Eponine. She seemed older, in a short, low cut black dress. Her thick brown hair was braided back.</p><p>“How do I look?” she played, posing for them.</p><p>Montparnasse nodded, “Hot.”</p><p>“Yeah, hot damn,” Grantaire smirked, earning himself a middle finger from teenage girl.</p><p>“Let’s get going,” she said, “The queue is going to be so fucking long.”<br/><br/></p><p>They stumbled down the street onto the train. It was a Friday night, and the carriages were filled with other rowdy youth.</p><p>“Do we act like that?” Eponine frowned as a group of young lads tripped through the train, shouting loudly.</p><p>“Bunch of twats,” Montparnasse laughed, as he took another drink from the bottle of vodka he’d ‘found’, “But yes we probably do, we’re just more graceful.”</p><p>Eponine snatched the bottle from him. She was tensely quieter than usual, frowning a lot at the boys.</p><p>“Come on,” Montparnasse got up, “This is our stop.”</p><p>“Are you sure?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Grantaire laughed, following his two friends off the train. Apparently, half the youth in the city were also getting off. The train station was packed with drunk young people; girls in too-high-heels clumsy walking up the steps, as the lads cat-called.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s fucking cold,” Eponine shivered.</p><p>They had been walking around for what felt like hours, trying to find the club.<br/>Montparnasse shrugged, “Your own fault. Should have brought a hoodie.”</p><p>She just rolled her eyes, “If you were a gentleman, you’d give me yours.”</p><p>“Well I’m not.”</p><p>“Where is the club Monty?” Grantaire asked, “It’s already nearly midnight.”</p><p>They rounded another corner, come back out next to the train station.</p><p>“It should be here!”</p><p>Eponine rolled her eyes, “Are you sure we got off at the right stop?”</p><p>“Yes! I’ve been here loads,” Montparnasse gazed around, “I swear, your Dad makes me deal here at least once a week – ow, what was that for?”</p><p>Eponine punched him again, “Can’t we go one fucking night without you mentioning him. One night away from Dad fucking up my life.”</p><p>He was silent, but at least Montparnasse looked a little apologetic.</p><p>“Let’s just go home,” Grantaire suggested, “We can finish drinking there.”<br/>“Lame,” Montparnasse slipped out.</p><p>“Have you got any other suggestions Lucian?”</p><p>He shrugged at them both.</p><p>“Come on, my Ma’s not back until tomorrow morning,” Grantaire didn’t wait for them, and headed back into the station.</p><p>The three teens jumped on the train back home. Eponine leaning on Grantaire, who balanced his legs on Montparnasse’s lap.</p><p>“What station did it just say we came from?”</p><p>“The square?”</p><p>Montparnasse lent his head back, “Fuck, yeah we did get off too early.”</p><p> </p><p>The bass was too loud. The bass was too loud, and Jehan was smiling too sweetly. They’d moved to the dance-floor.<br/>“You alright R?” they asked, putting out a hand as they gracefully danced to what was probably the most ungraceful club music.</p><p>“Fine. I think I need some air, or another drink,” R said, looking around for his flatmates.<br/>“We just got here!” Musichetta greeted as she came up behind him, “Come on let’s dance!”<br/>Compared to Jehan and Musichetta dancing like their lives depended on it, R looked like a clucky elephant. He manged one song before a burning sensation came to his throat.</p><p>“I need to get some air,” R laughed, but the humour was lost as he stumbled towards the door, not bothering to check if anyone was following.</p><p> </p><p>The air was hot and sticky, the September evening had grown warm. It hadn’t rained in days. There were students still out, some throwing-up onto the pavement, while other drunkenly moved between clubs. R tripped past them, past the clubs and bars, through the park. It was still loud, the ever-buzzing city providing a nightly soundscape, but there was space to breath. Through the park, the music school could be seen, settled into the skyline. In the day, the building was mesmerising, grand, sticking out amongst the modern business buildings. However, at night, the music school looked graceful, silently beautiful. R swallowed heavily as he gazed up. There was a light coming from the top floor of the building. He had his ID on him. What would it hurt, just to have a little late-night explore? <em>Montparnasse would be so proud, </em>R thought as he wondered through the empty corridors. The automatic lights turned on as he moved further into the building’s maze.</p><p>Soft piano playing could be heard from somewhere, echoing down the staircases. R stopped, eyes shut, listening to the music. Debussy? Or Greig? The playing was soft, contemplating, but confident. It stopped abruptly, before a few doors slammed. R coughed, and smoothed his hair back, as he began to climb the stairs.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you, Tusen Takk.</p><p>Whoever you are, you are the best. You are the best guys. I swear the writing should get better, just stick with me guys.</p><p>fun fact 1 - I've done nothing for two weeks but reorganise this text and drink wine</p><p>fun fact 2 - I've also spent so much time catching up on shitty CW shows that my brain is confused</p><p>fun fact 3 - i NEED to get someone to read this crap before i upload it.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Midnight Piano</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>People who are functioning adults while studying postgrad amaze me, how do you do it? tell me. pls.</p><p>i wanted to upload one chapter a week, obviously that didn't happen, how do you guys to it?</p><p>my life is a mess coz im writing a dissertation, so this chapter is rough and unedited, like every chapter man,</p><p>enjoy folks,</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>Lyric Pieces, Op. 57: No. 4, Secret</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em> Edvard Grieg</em>
  </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Chapter Seven: Midnight Piano</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Empty buildings at night can be either: terrifying and creepy, or still and calm. R used his new student card to get in, pulling the heavy door ajar just enough to slip into the main building. The automatic lights switched on, lighting the grand ceiling and artwork. R took a deep breath, gazing around to take it all in. His ears rang, the club music from earlier in the night echoing into the silence. In the dark, with just streetlamps and moonlight, the old conservatoire felt like a mirage, a dream. This place had once seemed so untouchable, and now he was here. R drunkenly stumbled through the corridors, and up the stairs, hands tracing the walls, just to check it was real. He reached the top floor, the practice rooms. In the audition process, he’d had twenty minutes to warm up in one of these rooms. He hadn’t though. No. R had run to the nearest park, smoked a joint, and then strolled back into the audition, dead on time. All the practice room lights were off, apart from one at the end of the corridor: the one R saw from outside on the street.</p><p>Someone had obviously been camped out in the room for some time. R edged his way in slowly, cautious in case the person was sleeping in there. A lone grand piano sat in the little of the room, opposite a mirror. A black, perfectly polished Steinway, with not a single fingerprint. R scoffed, moving to the piano stall. The keys were soft, and hard, the perfect balance which made playing feel easy. It was the opposite to the old pub piano at Thenardiers’. It was everything the digital piano back in his Ma’s apartment longed to be. He felt the top of it, the sweat and dirt from the club leaving behind a perfect imprint of R’s hand.</p><p>He stumbled through the first few bars of <em>Piano Man, </em>laughing at himself in disbelief at the sound of the piano. Even having drunk a bottle of Whisky and some shots, R could play the Billy Joel tune. He could play it while blindfolded or asleep, or drugged. His hand did the work. Sometimes, R would play it without noticing, and then have to blink, trying to remember if his hands had actually touched the keys. Muscle memory maybe?</p><p>A coffee takeaway cup sat neatly positioned on a table next to the piano, a folder of music left open beside to it. R pulled out a piece by Grieg. There were little neat pencilled notes all over the music. It wasn’t a hard piece, but not easy either, especially at one in the morning, drunk and a little high. He started shaky, stumbling through the first few bars, adding notes to the chords by accident. It was like a little game with himself and the piano. R made it disjointedly through the first page of the piece, trying to ignore the swelling tide in his stomach. <em>Was he really doing this? </em>The first time in a practice room as a student, and he’s completely shredded. <em>This feels like a curse</em>, R thought, <em>you’ve cursed your time here, playing stoned in the audition and now this. You don’t belong here. </em>He tried to blink away the tears that were creeping into his eyes. Pulling away from the piano like it had suddenly poisoned him, R retched over the keys.</p><p> </p><p>There Grantaire was, drunk, his first time in a practice room, trying not to vomit on a Steinway piano.</p><p> </p><p>Laughing bitterly, he tried to swallow leaning back, slumping on the stool. <em>You’ve really fucked up this badly in your first few days here. </em>R shook his head, trying to empty it of the negative thoughts. It didn’t work. If anything, it made him feel worse. <em>Go on, vomit on the Steinway, get kicked out, go home, hat in hand.</em></p><p>Inevitably, the whisky and vodka mixed in his stomach, and off he went stumbling over to the bin, where the night’s drinks came back up. R sat back on his knees, hugging the bin, laughing cruelly at himself.</p><p>“What the fuck are you doing?”</p><p>A boy stood there, still and tall, face pulled into a frown.</p><p>“Did you just vomit into the bin?” the boy asked, stepping fully into the room, “That’s fucking gross.”</p><p>R shrugged, feeling a little dizzy, stuttering something crude and romantic in his mother’s tongue.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Fancy meeting you here,” R formulated a sentence.</p><p>The boy did not laugh, “Get out! God, it’s going to smell so bad in here.”</p><p>“Sorry about that, I just really had to practice y’know, get in all those hours before semester starts.”</p><p>The boy tugged at his blond curls, pushing forward into the room, collecting his things in a rucksack.</p><p>“Jesus how drunk are you? Do you even go here?” the boy didn’t even try to hide disgust, “How did you get in?”</p><p>R rolled his eyes, clumsy pulling out his ID, “See. Totally not trespassing.”</p><p>“Giovanni Grantaire. First year. Music Performance major,” the boy read off, “So not breaking and entering. Just a stupid fresher.”</p><p>“Jesus, no need to be such a twat,” R smirked snatching his ID back, “It’s freshers week.”</p><p>The boy grabbed a jacket, and swung his rucksack around his back, “Well I’m not hanging around to be blamed for the vomit.”</p><p>He went to leave. R pushed himself off the floor, and in a rush of drunkenness, or stupidity, swiped the boys ID that hung from his jeans pocket. Montparnasse would have been so proud.</p><p>“Aleksander Enjolras. First year. Music Performance major,” R taunted back.</p><p>“What?” the boy’s hand went to his pocket, “You creep. Give it back.”<br/>R laughed, “Aleksander. Interesting.”</p><p>‘Aleksander’ frowned, “Stop it. Give it back. I want to go home.”</p><p>“Scandinavian?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>‘Aleksander’ sighed deeply “No.”</p><p>“Explains the Grieg,” R nodded, catching a hand on the wall for support as the boy grabbed his ID back.</p><p>“Seriously?” he went to leave before turning, “Italian?”</p><p>“Kind of.”<br/>“Explains the drinking.”</p><p>R ignored him, “Play me something Baldr.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“No. Phoebus.”</p><p>“Are we just naming Gods now?” ‘Aleksander Enjolras’ shook his head, “Goodnight Giovanni Grantaire. Let’s see how long you last.”</p><p>The boy disappeared through the door, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.</p><p>“Apollo,” R spoke to himself, and wiped his hands on his jeans.</p><p> </p><p>In the morning, R couldn’t recall how he got home that night. The next thing he remembered was waking up in his apartment corridor, smelling like the trashy club or an alcoholic. An email was sent round that afternoon, by the university, asking first years not to drink in the practice rooms. A bin of vomited alcohol was found in a room, but no one seemed to know where it came from. R’s roommates laughed about it, that idiot drunkenly being sick in the music building.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tusen takk! Thank you.</p><p>Here's your chapter-ly reminder that you are the best. Whoever you are, reading this or hating this, ya the best.</p><p>im sorry i couldn't help it, everyone is going to be from all over, i just stan a multicultural les amis, also how do you write enjolras, how? what is too much and what is too little</p><p>i keep apologising for the bad writing in each chapter, i need to stop, it's whatever, i write for fun and for plot ideas, y'know? </p><p>fun fact 1 - Grieg is an amazing composer, and his piano works are just beautiful </p><p>fun fact 2 - i missed eurovision this year, i was meant to be be going :(</p><p>fun fact 3 - fyi i've been so overly emotionally invested in a certain alien cw show that was back after a week break, (sooo it felt good to come back to writing les mis again)</p>
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